"Well, I declare!" she said; "that girl certainly does like to make a
show of her money; don't she? If 'tain't one thing it's another. How
did a girl like her come by all that money, I'd like to know?"
"I don't see as that's any of our particular affairs," objected Mrs.
Daggett warmly. "Think of havin' nice cool spring water, just by
turning a faucet. We're going to have it in our house. And Henry says
mebbe he'll put in a tap and a drain-pipe upstairs. It'd save a lot
o' steps."
"Huh! like enough you'll be talkin' about a regular nickel-plated
bathroom like hers, next," suspicioned Mrs. Whittle. "The Deacon says
he did his best to talk her out of it; but she stuck right to it. And
one wa'n't enough, at that. She's got three of 'em in that house.
That's worse'n Andrew Bolton."
"Do you mean _worse_, Ann Whittle, or do you mean _better?_ A nice
white bathtub is a means o' grace, I think!"
"I mean what I said, Abby; and you hadn't ought to talk like that.
It's downright sinful. _Means o' grace! a bathtub!_ Well, I never!"
The ladies of the Aid Society were already convened in Mrs. Dix's
front parlor, a large square room, filled with the cool green light
from a yard full of trees, whose deep-thrust roots defied the
drought. Ellen Dix had just brought in a glass pitcher, its frosted
sides proclaiming its cool contents, when the late comers arrived.
"Yes," Mrs. Dix was saying, "Miss Orr sent over a big piece of ice
this morning and she squeezed out juice of I don't know how many
lemons.
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